Four Hundred
by Darkskyer Mako
Summary: AKA That doomed collection of drabbles, each of them of four hundred or so words. LenKu, fluff galore. Just because.
1. Attention

_**A** ttention_

He wears glasses. Thin, square, white and delicate. They also lack the lower half of the frame, giving them a peculiar design. Miku would later learn that they were supported by something (a thin, transparent nylon wire, was it?)

"Semi-rimless" he told her when she asked. Because he's talkative like that.

She likes them. He often wears them when reading, studying or playing videogames. Sometimes, even when he's using his phone. Not all the time, mind you, he says they're so he can rest his eyes, but still…

 _He looks damn good in them._

So, she pays attention when he wears them, when his eyes are covered by the glass and he's biting his lower lip because something in his book is interesting, or chewing on the end of a pencil while taking notes. While his focus is n his current activity, she focuses on him. Sometimes, she thinks he knows she's watching, because he puts on a show: he licks his lips slowly, moves his hair out of his face, pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

The _tease_ , he knows she's watching.

And she must stare more, must pay even more attention, so she doesn't miss a single detail or movement. It's a game to them, a constant competition to see who gives in faster. Will he snap, forget his book, his game, his whatever and jump at her? Will she finally cut the tension because when he bites the tip of his finger is simply sinful? Who?

Miku shivers at the idea. She loves this boy.

But what she loves the most is when he's in bed, reading a book, because he lets his hair loose and wears those damn glasses, and it's guaranteed that he will win that game. She simply can't keep her eyes away when he does that, nor resist the impulse to run her fingers through the silky locks, nor…

He turns the page, and she returns to their living room. They're alone, her head on his shoulder, and he's reading. He's not wearing his glasses, which is strange. Doesn't he need them?

He smirks, as if he had read her mind, and dog-ears the page to continue reading later. Instead, he looks at her and chuckles lowly, smoothly.

"Oh, this?" he asks, and taps right beside his eyes. She nods, mesmerized "I'm wearing contact lenses, why? Don't you like them?"


	2. Bickering

_**B**_ _ickering_

B stands for bastard. Also for vain, but that's the other V. And truth is, he is a vain bastard.

Even when covered in flour, he stands there, proud, quite a bit taller than her and staring blankly at her. The smug snake is smug no more.

It started simple: brownies. Preferably with ice cream and a nice cup of tea, and then she decided to get creative. Her creativity rarely gets her anywhere in her culinary pursuits ("Stick to the recipe", the self-satisfied salamander she has for a husband told her, "that's the only way you'll produce something edible")

She's not the best cook there is (that's why he cooks most of the time), but she has a tiny ego that deserves respect, as much as his huge ego does. And hers doesn't take ninety per cent of her brain. Narcissistic, smug jerk.

"You stick that recipe up your nose" she answers, and he wrinkles his nose at that.

"I'm wasn't trying to be aggressive, I swear"

"You weren't? Then what?"

"Is… is this because I told you I'd like to have something edible for dessert?" he even has the nerve to look surprised.

"Yes! No! Well…"

"It… it was a joke, I didn't want to make you mad…"

B stands for bastard. And that's how she feels. Now he looks nervous, ashamed, he's even blushing and, god spare her soul, he looks apologetic. And now she feels like the bastard, because she threw a fistful of flour to his face when he was just joking.

"I…"

"I never thought my jokes bothered you… I mean, you never said any-"

"They don't…" she blinks. Yeah, his sense of humour is quite a salty thing, but he never means harm with it. She knows better than anyone else. And he's only like that with people he cares about.

"I'm sorry, love" she says suddenly, and now he looks confused. It's a funny look for him, with his blonde hair almost white from the flour, and she smiles sweetly at him.

"No, wait, you'll get all dirty if you-! And there you go, hugging me, despite the warnings…"

She hums softly at him and he melts. His shoulders relax, and he wraps his arms around her.

Meanwhile, he is still wondering what the heck is going on inside her strange, confusing brain while she deposits a sweet kiss on his nose.


	3. Control

Control

She simply loves to see him like this.

Laying among the tangled sheets, the sweet haze of the afterglow, glistening, bare, his breath rushed and trying to return to reality while the sweet shreds of ecstasy did their best to keep him for themselves.

He's panting, gasping for air, and when he finally calms his heart down and can breathe a little better, he just stays there, with his face to the ceiling, eyes half lidded, relaxed, at peace. His hair is tangled in tiny knots, that she will untangle later with a brush. Or with her fingers, his hair is so docile, so easy to handle, unlike hers. Silken threads of gold spilled across his pillow, his forehead, sticking to the skin of his neck, his cheeks, wherever it reaches. His long eyelashes flutter now and then, his body still twitches with those small shocks, the rush, the…

Sweet boy of hers, she smiles, no longer a boy. A man, she thinks.

One who likes to be in control, who keeps his head clean while she writhes and gasps and shakes. While she shivers in his hands, he smiles and laughs and _teases_ , because he's a fucking tease. He'll bite and soothe it with his tongue, his fingers scratch with millimetric precision, his kisses are carefully counted and spread across her skin in even patterns. She often teases him, that he is a perfectionist, and he is. He knows.

That's why he enjoys the torture.

But there is a point, a single moment, in which he loses all control, in which he is untamed and she tames him, calms him down with words, kisses, she also bites. In that moment, when punishment is no longer a viable option, there is just the race for completion and the only things that exist in his world are him, her and their instant. When the silken bindings leave her wrist, when he only tortures with fingers and lets her roam his skin, when she says in her smooth voice "please…", that's when he snaps and he's no longer himself.

(She loves it)

(He loves it too)

And afterwards, just like right now, she opens her arms and he accepts the invitation, melting in her embrace. Where she can run her fingers through his hair and kiss him everywhere, softly.

And then they both know, she's got him under her spell. Her control.


End file.
